


there's a dozen reasons in this gun

by mindyfication



Series: I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (for extra subjectiveness woohoo), Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Multiple, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindyfication/pseuds/mindyfication
Summary: Dean isn't saved from death, Tessa reaping his soul.Sam's going to find him.





	there's a dozen reasons in this gun

**Author's Note:**

> whew, the last album fic! track 10 is Demolition Lovers ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSr9k0peUew))
> 
> and this kicks off [hellatus creations](http://spnhiatuscreations.tumblr.com/), this week's prompt taken in negative space: _the only thing we had in this world - the only thing, aside from this car, was each other_

It’s a difficult thing, to shift fate. Even with time travel and angels and demons, often fate gets her own way. But the Winchesters have never been ordinary, and when Dean is in the wrong timeline and declares that he will kill Azazel, the demon listens. 

The demon will not cease to be in the new timeline, Azazel will be the one to kill Dean Winchester. It only takes knowing a single date in the journal they so helpfully brought back, his plan growing grander as Sam’s existence comes closer to being. 

Azazel laughs as John Winchester tries to deal with him, kills him and takes the colt. Dean would die soon, very soon, and Azazel already has a cell marked for him. The angels don’t even try to save his soul for heaven, overconfident feathery bastards. They have no originality, no vision. 

Azazel doesn’t serve some locked up would-be god, he serves _himself_. 

He never was the thankful sort. Demons didn’t tend to be, but many felt some odd attachment to their original father. They forgot Lucifer was an angel, would always smite first. As Sam grows, their parallels do and Azazel finds himself inordinately pleased with the boy. He doesn’t follow their father blindly, looks to his own needs first. Azazel wonders how much is pure Sam, how much is his blood coursing through his veins. 

He’s proud, damn proud of his boy. One day, Sam will call him family. It isn’t something he planned on, but Sam brought out his protective instincts, wants him to truly be his heir not merely his puppet. Meg rolls her eyes whenever he goes to see the boy, and he has to wring a promise out of her that she won’t skin him. He brings her a hellhound puppy, one of her very own to train and she stops caring about his visits above land. 

She’s the loyal sort, devotes herself entirely. Meg takes after her mother like that, faithful to her nonexistence. He’d put Dean in her care if she didn’t know who he was, she would have groomed him even more excellently for his brother. He lets Alastair play with him instead, he’s sadistic but he follows orders. It isn’t ideal, but it’s hell, it suits well enough. 

.

Sam is alone. For the first time in his life, he’s truly alone, with no way back to Dean. (Or his father, but he’s bitter about John, about his death doing nothing, about how he didn’t even try to save Dean.) He goes on more and more demonic hunts, tortures, begs, kills, pleads for any information about his brother. Most laugh, and all Sam can do is send them back to hell. He needs to find a way to kill them, needs to strike real fear into the black eyed bastards. 

Hunting alone means flirting with death around every other corner, and if he’s being honest, he stopped fearing death at 4:28pm on a Tuesday, the flatline still haunts his nights. He tried the ouija board again, tried talking to Missouri, tried just burying Dean’s body to see if any bit of him would come back. (He burned John with Bobby, used a spare body- vampire- as a fake Dean for the pyre.)

It lasts until it doesn’t, Sam chained up in a root cellar. They’re just people that capture him, and it’s an almost-comfort that it’s vicious cannibals not werewolves. Cops were much more likely to catch them after Agent Perry went missing. It’s still leaving the job half-done, but it’s half-done and probable to be completed so he lets the nagging feeling go. 

It’s been too easy to let things go recently, he’s grown accustomed to living hollow. The emptiness rattles his chest more than anything else ever could, and the couple play with him, slicing up his clothes and skin. 

He doesn’t bother holding back a sigh, a werewolf death would have been quicker. Probably less painful than whatever these two were planning. 

One of the girl’s eyes sparkle, “I think we’re boring him baby. We should do something.” 

The other picks up a mallet, her grin ferocious. “How many licks ‘til we get to the center?”

“Mmm, eight!” 

She brings the mallet to the center of his sternum, giggling. “You don’t have enough fear in your eyes, after this you will.” 

And she winds back, dramatically slow. Sam forces his eyes closed even though it goes against each of his instincts. His last sight isn’t going to be them, thinks of nights under the stars with Dean instead. It’s calming, and he tries not to think about how close the first hit is. How close he is to a punctured lung and choking on his own blood as they try to smash him open before death. The messy corpses make more sense now, not trampled- smashed. 

There’s a rush of wind, and Sam can’t help a wince, but the hit never lands. 

“What the fuck?” one of them says, and Sam opens his eyes to see a cloud of smoke filling up mallet-girl. 

She grins, killing the other one with a snap of her fingers, yellow eyes flashing. “Heya Sammy.” 

“Azazel,” Sam spits out, rage bubbling under his skin. He didn’t realize he was still capable of strong feelings, of such hate. 

“I can bring you to your brother.” 

Hope hits him hard, somehow dwarfs the hate. A vengeance that can be satisfied later, everything can be done later, if he can truly get to Dean-

“I’m listening.” 

.

Alastair makes him the same offer every day. Well, every time he visits. Dean isn’t sure how long the time periods are, if there even is time in hell, but thinking of it in days keeps him sane. Today is just like any other day. 

“Come torture souls with me Dean. It’ll keep the boredom at bay until you see your brother again.” 

Today though, the loneliness is thick, and he asks, “Has that ever worked on anyone?” 

Alastair cackles, high and reedy. “My dear boy, this is _hell_. Most souls ache to torture, to be tortured.” He pauses, looks him over before adding slyly, “You could just watch.” 

“No,” Dean says fast, feels sick that he was even considering a demon’s company. His Dad would be so ashamed of him. He hasn’t even been here that long, as though he can’t function alone and needs to be endlessly following orders. (The thought is sharp, in a too-familiar voice, and Dean pushes it away, won’t think of his brother poorly. Not here.)

Alastair shrugs, and the light leaves with him. 

No matter how long he’s been in this cell, his eyes never adjust to the darkness. He’s hungry and cold and displaced in the dark prison cell lookalike, but it isn’t nearly as bad as he thought hell would be. He’s stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop, has grown comfortable in his dismal surroundings and memories. 

Naturally, the next day everything changes. 

“You’re gonna join me today champ,” Alastair says, unlocking the door. 

Dean doesn’t get up or closer, simply raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” 

“You watch, and I’ll tell you what Sammy’s doing upstairs.” 

Dean is standing before he even thinks about it, narrowing his eyes at the nickname. “You’ll lie.” 

The demon chuckles, “Fine. Stay in your little cell. But you should know, he’s been hunting without you.” Alastair purses his lips, “I wonder how many times over the years he would have died without you. How long do you think he’ll last?” 

Dean freezes, his imagination going into overdrive. 

Alastair leans into the bars, eyes glowing white. “Who’s to say he isn’t already in the cell right next to yours?” 

Dean’s fist ends up in his smug face, his knuckles busted open on the bars. The pain is sharp, one of the few feelings that always comes easy in hell and Alastair starts laughing. 

“Next time then,” he says, leaving Dean in the dark. 

He doesn’t lock the door. 

(Dean’s been slowly learning about hell. It’s favorite thing is non-choices: torture or be tortured, eat or starve, be twisted or go mad. Inclusive ors are always a bitch.)

.

Azazel wants him to open up a hell’s gate. He wants him to do more than that, so much more. It’s a terrible idea, truly awful. But if the gate is open, then Sam can get Dean out of hell. He might have to conquer the entire land, but he can get to Dean. That’s all that matters. 

Azazel brings other special children before him. Lessons he calls them. Jake is strength, Ava subterfuge, Andy betrayal, and Lily mercy. 

One by one, Sam kills them all. 

Azazel grows more proud with every kill, beams when Sam’s eyes glow gold. Azazel speaks to him like John never did, asks if he’d like to go back to college once the gate is open. He insists on them dining in overly nice establishments, _a truly delicious meal is worth an extra thirty minutes_ , and Sam would feel spoilt if every meal wasn’t full of Azazel testing him or research. Azazel tells him about the blood when Sam asks, and Sam vomits up a two-hundred dollar meal when it hits him- John _knew_. 

Sam didn’t know demons could be so complex. In another world perhaps, one without his mother murdered over his crib, they could have almost gotten along. But Sam will kill him one day soon, once the gates are open. He knows Azazel too well, will not allow his brother to become the demon’s live bargaining chip. 

.

Dean isn’t sure when he stopped being human. Sometime between foolishly leaving his unlocked cell and finding a live feed of Sammy’s adventures and following Alastair anywhere to watch more. (Alastair always turned off the television at an important moment- right before it seemed like Sam would die or right before Sam killed someone- a demonic fucking Scheherazade.) 

He goes from watching Alastair play with moaning souls, beginning for release or death or nonexistence to picking up the blade himself. He’ll rip apart all of hell’s souls to see Sam again, he can’t even pretend it isn’t true. 

Alastair makes him go longer and longer between his hits of Sammy, makes him shiver and quake in ignorance. He’s always been addicted to his brother, but it was never so easily measurable. Dean takes it out on the souls he’s brought, starts to enjoy their suffering. 

Dean isn’t sure when he stopped being human but he knows that he isn’t now. 

He’s slicing up the soul of the day, when his hand hesitates, their frantic begging nearly too fast to decipher, _please, please I’ll tell you about your brother_.

Alastair tsks him, covers his hand with the knife with his own hand, makes him kill her instantly. 

“You know better Dean,” he drawls. “Poor form, no letting the torturee know they have information you want.” 

“But-” Dean starts, knows she can be up again in a few minutes if he stitches her back together right. 

“No, no. This one’s mine now, no slipping up.” 

Dean grabs Alastair before he thinks through the movement, growling, “ _No_.”

Alastair laughs, presses himself further into Dean’s grasp. “You don’t have the stamina to beat me big boy.” He snaps his fingers, a television in the corner flicking on, “Your choice.” 

Dean glares, but he lets go, can’t help but be drawn to Sam- there had been two girls that just captured him and Dean doesn’t know how he’ll get out of it. 

Sam endures his torture silently, too silently and Dean can feel himself splintering. He’s known souls to do that, to be so done that they don’t even raise their eyes when he destroys them. The killing blow is clearly coming, and Dean wills Sam to snap out of it. To fight back, to destroy the chair he’s chained to, to do _anything_. 

And then a demon fills up his would-be murderer and Dean goes cold, and the screen goes black. 

“Alastair!” Dean yells, and the demon pops in, wiping blood off his hands. 

“Want some more fun today? The new one I have upstairs, mm-mm, quite the little screamer.” 

“I need to get to earth, now.” 

“Oh Dean, why would you want to visit that arctic craphole? We’ve been having such a good time down here.” Alastair says with an exaggerated pout. 

“What do you want to bring me up?” 

Alastair shrugs, “No can do.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow, “You can’t or won’t?” 

“Both. Only rule is you’re not allowed topside.” A sudden chill darts down his back, and he already suspects what Alastair is about to say before he does, his smile easy as when he slices off extra bits. “You wouldn’t be very good bait up there.” He claps a hand on his shoulder, “Besides, young demons grow big and strong in hell, we wouldn’t want to stunt your growth.” 

Dean grabs his arm and flips him over, has the knife they use to permanently dissipate souls against his throat. 

Alastair looks too pleased and amused, and Dean lets it bite into him, blood dribbling down his throat. “Last chance to help me.” 

“I’ll tell you a secret protege. The videos of Sam? They might be real, but they’re years old. Your brother went darkside and didn’t even come to hell to save you-”

Dean slits his throat, stabs him over and over, Alastair’s laughs turning bloody. He starts critiquing him after the fourth stab, _put your weight into it boy_ , and Dean lets go, settles for mutilating him beyond immediate repair. 

.

It takes three months. Three months he’s strong enough that Azazel will tell him how to open the hell gate, how to get to his brother. Three months and Sam can control demons with his mind, can see the futures he wants to. The end point is always the same, him in hell, freeing a black eyed Dean and today is the day he’ll do it. 

Azazel’s blood is still on his hands when he opens the gate, and he doesn’t break up the railroads, wants to know exactly where the demons will be. It only takes a few deaths before random demons stop challenging him, just desperately try to climb out of hell instead. He idly wonders if there are enough demons to summon lightning, to be freed by the elements. It’ll make rounding them up harder, but beyond that he doesn’t particularly care. 

He’s so close. Today is the day he sees Dean again. 

The road to hell isn’t paved at all, a slippery sharp rock slide down that tugs and tears. It tries to break him, tries to strip his flesh away. But Sam has never been afraid of a little blood, and as long as he keeps moving physics don’t seem to count, cartoon-world like. Even though the cliff face is near vertical, his body sticks to the edge, demon smoke shooting up past him. 

He doesn’t know how long he falls for. Long enough to grow impatient, long enough to consider bending a demon to his will to ride down. Long enough that the sudden switch from falling to standing trips his adrenaline more than the second half of the fall, and that he’s beyond questioning the logic here. (Research could be done later, so much later.) 

Sam kills a dozen demons with a single thought, destroying their very essence. The one survivor shivers, is more than willing to tell him all she knows of his brother’s whereabouts. He still ends her, only he makes it swift, merciful, doesn’t make her choke on herself. (He knows just how much push and pull it takes to make a demon choke itself up and down, cycling endlessly.) 

.

Dean is fighting Alastair. He refuses to show him any more of Sam, and it’s replaced torturing souls, the winner carving up the day’s loser. Either way, Alastair is lavish with his praise and critique. He thinks he feels something impossible, but the moment passes and Alastair has him pinned up against the wall. There’s a playful frown on his face, and an even more playful knife in his hand, slicing down his jaw.

“Now Dean, you know what distractions cost. Let’s cut away each of your senses and see how you do-” 

Alastair is choking suddenly, convulsing. The knife clatters to the floor loudly, but Dean can’t move his eyes from the doorway.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, can hardly believe it. Alastair crumples, the gold fading from Sam’s eyes, and in a blink Dean has an armful of little brother, feels real again. 

“Fuck I’ve missed you,” Sam says, clutching him tighter. 

“I got you,” Dean murmurs, fingers cupping his neck. “I’ve got you.” 

Sam takes a shaky breath, doesn’t let go or back away. “So what do you wanna do?”

“Hmm?” Dean doesn’t really process the words is still caught on _my Sam, my Sam is back_. 

“Whatever you want Dean.” Sam almost looks sheepish, “I have a demon army trapped up on earth, and a crown waiting down here. Where do you want to be?” 

“I don’t wanna be cold anymore,” Dean mutters, more to himself. And maybe it’s his new demon status, or maybe it’s already being in hell, or maybe it’s just how long it’s been since he’s had his brother- but the words come easy, aren’t trapped like before. 

“You Sam,” he says, tugging him all the closer. “I want to be with you. You’re all I need.” 

“I’m here,” Sam promises, thumbs nearly trembling over his cheeks, “always.” 

Dean doesn’t know if he leans up on his toes, or if Sam dips down, or both, but they’re kissing. Sam tastes like blood and smoke, nothing like what Dean definitely didn’t imagine him tasting like. He turns them around, pushing Sam up against the nearest wall. He’s not sure what he’s looking for exactly, searching out the depths of Sam’s mouth, but he doesn’t find it. Dean presses a knee up between his legs and Sam whines so pretty. And there, that’s it- a sound he was expecting, recognition of any sort. It’s the same whine from that one time he walked in on Sam getting teased by some girl, thick purple silicone rubbing against his ass. The very same whine he memorized, recalled only when Sam was far, far away, couldn’t be touched by his traitorous hands. 

Dean takes a deep breath, lets some space inch between their torsos, looking at his brother. Sam doesn’t care to slow down though, wantonly grinding down on his raised knee. 

Sam’s hands, fuck his hands are so huge, nearly span his entire back, pull him back in close. Close enough that their breath mingles, hot and damp.

“Dean,” Sam begs, the very same voice he used when he wanted to borrow Baby. “Want more, please.” 

And Dean kisses the words off his lips, will always give Sam what he needs.


End file.
